Final Act by Dianne Yetman (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📕

The remaining cast and crew watched the ordered recessional, thanking the gods above they weren’t the first.

***

His office in use by the police, Henry walked backstage and opened Charlotte’s dressing room door sat in the large swivel chair and stared with unseeing eyes at the mirrored wall, his mind on the call he received at home early this morning from the Chair of the Board.

The call came in at 6:30am. An official invitation to direct the next scheduled production, Death of a Salesman, was made.  Henry remained calm.  He had rehearsed his response over and over again.   Hedging, he thanked the Chair for his confidence but producing was his field; he wasn’t sure if he could meet the rigors of the Director’s position.

“Don’t so modest, Henry.  Jeffrey, God rest his soul, and I were talking only a week ago and he sang your praises, recommended you, in fact, for the Director’s chair.  Give it a go Henry, if not for your sake, for Jeffrey’s.  And for the sake of the actors and crew.  If you don’t take the position, it means we will have to refund season tickets, we’ll be in the red and everyone could be out of a job.”

Henry hesitated for ten seconds, sighed, and then accepted.  Graciously.  Now he had to work out the logistics.  He wanted Eleanor on board as Producer.  Given her years of experience in the theatre business, it wouldn’t take long for him to teach her the ropes.  It wouldn’t cause any flack among the rest of the cast either.  Eleanor’s manner prohibited jealousy.

He hoped he could convince Andrew to stay on as Stage Manager.  The man could multi-task and knew what he was doing.  He needed him.  It would take careful coaxing.

Brenda Parsons was a different matter.  Loud, aggressive, talented, and when she thought it was required, an excellent people pleaser but he didn’t trust her.  She had been schooled by Jeffrey; he was her mentor. And he had been more than delighted to have a protégé.

No request from Jeffrey had been too demeaning for her.   She swept the stage floors, pinned up hems, removed spots from the actors clothing, and did take out food runs. The rest of the time she followed Jeffrey around the theatre, scribbling like mad in the little notebook she carried.  Henry thought she was a bit long in the tooth for a protégé but knew she was more valuable on the roster than off.  He decided to make her assistant stage manager.  Andrew can handle her.

As much as Henry despised Jeffrey, he never discounted his talent.  His ability to encourage, motivate, inspire and coax the best performance out of a complex, multi-talented team of actors had been astounding. He’d be a tough act to follow.  But he would succeed.  He had to.  He heard a sound of approaching footsteps.  He slipped out of the dressing room before anyone saw him.

***

Roger entered the deceased Director’s office followed closely by Charlotte Beauvoir.  His eyes swept around the room.  He was surprised at its beauty.  It was pristine, immaculate, furniture well placed.  He sat in the executive chair that was so deeply cushioned a small child could hide in its folds.

I feel like Captain Kirk taking the command seat.

The room bore no traces of the feminine.  There was a faint aroma of pipe and cigar smoke. The dark mahogany bookcase was filled with leather bound volumes on the history of the Canadian and American theatre.

With a nod, he directed Charlotte to the plush twin of the executive chair facing the cherry wood desk.  He ignored the loud slight protest of the chair’s springs as she seated herself.

Wonder if Scotty would be able to beam her up? 

He could hear his mother’s voice, it sounded like it was coming from behind his chair.  Lose the fat jokes, Roger, and grow up.

He smiled at Charlotte.

She has beautiful ice blue eyes.  Damn, are those whiskey fumes I smell?

Trying to reduce her stress level, he took the time to give her extra reassurances before beginning the questioning.

“Please try to relax as much as you can, Ms. Beauvoir, it’s not an interrogation, more like a friendly chat.”

“Thank you, I’m relieved to hear it.  It’s all little overwhelming, not to mention intimidating.  Please call me Charlotte, Sergeant.  It’s more in keeping with the friendly chat, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Your bio in the brochure is impressive. You’ve been involved with the theatre for quite some time.  How long were you acquainted with the victim, Jeffrey Stone?”

“For 3 years, or so, whenever he joined the company, can’t remember exactly.”

She looked around the room, a frown creasing her forehead.

He heard a whooshing sound.  The woman was sinking, sinking fast into the quilted layers of fabric.  Giving her time to re-position herself, he opened the manila file folder, busied himself shuffling papers around until she had regained her balance.

“What was he like as a Director? Did he get along with the cast and crew?”

“No, not really.  He never was an easy man but lately, something had gone adrift with him.  He acted like a spooked man.  And let me tell you, young man, he was difficult, over the wall difficult.  He would come to rehearsals like a steaming bull, ranting and raving.  Horrible displays of temper tantrums.”

“You used the word spooked.  What do you mean by that?”

“He was haunted, you know, always looking around, scared like someone was going to jump out of the shadows.  And hyper, never stayed still, not for a minute.”

“When did this behaviour start?”

“It must have been at least a couple of weeks.”

“With the tantrums, did he single any one out?”

“No male actors, of course, the man was a chauvinist.  He gave Camira and Eleanor a hard time.  Why Camira left the set the other day in tears and poor Andrew, he was the one who had to apologize, convince her back.  No apologies offered